Of Love and Loyalty
by WanderingChild96
Summary: "John? What would you say if I told you that I'm going to give up being a consulting detective?" Written by I 4 2 Write. I am just posting it for her.


_Of Love and Loyalty_

I was sitting at my laptop, typing up my blog; Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, holding his violin, but not playing. I assumed that he was focused on some new case he hadn't told me the details of- either that, or he was contemplating using the wall for target practice again. In that case, his silence meant that he was bored. It had been a few days since the last case we'd solved together, and I've known him to be absolutely desperate for _any_ mental stimulation even when he's just solved a case the same morning.

"John?" he broke the silence to ask. "What would you say if I told you that I'm going to give up being a consulting detective?"

He hadn't really just asked that, had he? Maybe it was some sort of trick- something to get me to react in a certain way, like the time he asked me to punch him or… no, I wasn't even going to _think_ about the day I saw him fall. He was alive now, and that nightmare was over.

"I'd have to ask why," I finally said.

"Mycroft's found me a position in the government. I think I'd do well at it."

Mycroft? He was taking Mycroft's suggestion?

"Sherlock, what's going on? Really? You'd never give up your job, especially not for something your brother wanted you to do."

"I have my reasons."

"Such as?"

His deceptively calm expression changed, and the look that came over him was one I'd only seen once before, when he'd been frightened for the first time during the case I'd called _Hounds of Baskerville_. No… it was worse than that. Then, he'd been shaken because he couldn't trust his senses. This was like the case we'd just solved: the one with the counterfeiter, Evans, who'd shot me in the leg.

It was a painful wound, bad enough to cause my leg to buckle, sending me to the ground, but nothing life threatening. Yet, the way Sherlock had reacted had been the way someone would react if their best friend had been shot through the heart. He'd grabbed the gun and crashed it so hard against my attacker's head that I'm amazed he wasn't out for days. Then he'd grabbed me.

"You're not hurt, John? For God's sake, say that you're not hurt!"

"I'm fine," I answered. "Just a scratch."

He'd had to examine it himself before he would believe me. By then, Evans was starting to wake up.

"If you'd killed John, you'd never get up from there," Sherlock warned him, his tone somehow even more threatening because of its calmness. Lestrade showed up and arrested Evans then, or I'm not sure Sherlock wouldn't have hurt the criminal even more. Sherlock hadn't mentioned it since, but I knew that this sudden decision had to be about my injury.

"What? Because I got a minor flesh wound, you're willing to give up the work you love? Because you don't want me to risk getting hurt again?"

"Dammit, John! You could have been killed!" He slammed his fist down and sat up. "And not just then. That time with the Chinese smugglers, when you were kidnapped; and that night at the pool, when Moriarty had his snipers aiming at you. Those are just to name a few. How many times am I supposed to-?" He stopped a moment. "Supposed to have you be a distraction to me? How am I supposed to think when I have to worry about saving you?"

I have to admit that because he'd insulted everyone's intelligence (including mine) so often, I nearly believed that he might see me that way: an incompetent bumbler, who at best, was a sounding board for his thoughts; and at worst, a dangerous distraction. He'd shown the great heart that went along with the great brain though, and no matter what kind of act he put on or how much he denied having a heart, I knew the truth.

"You know, when I thought you were… dead-," my voice cracked, "I stood at your grave and told you that I believed every word you ever told me. But you are a liar." I saw the anger flash in his eyes and held up my hand to cut him off before he could interrupt.

"You say you're a sociopath. If you were, you wouldn't have nearly killed a man because he hurt Mrs. Hudson. You wouldn't have even been concerned that I could have been killed. You wouldn't have come up with a plan to protect all of us from Moriarty's gang, because we wouldn't have mattered."

"That was part of the game he and I were playing. That's all."

I shook my head. "You can keep telling yourself that all you like. I don't believe it."

"Well, you can believe that I'm never taking a case again. If I have to move to Sussex and- and _keep bees_ for a living to keep from going on another case I will."

"Right. Hope you can afford to buy your own place there then, because I don't think any other landlady is going to want her walls shot to pieces. You'd never stand the boredom and you know it. You'd be out of your mind in no time. It wouldn't even be living for you. I'm not having you put yourself through that just to keep me safe."

**Sherlock's POV**

He was right about that. It wouldn't really be living for me to leave my work as a detective. I'd had a taste of the depth extreme boredom could lower me to once when it had been a particularly quiet time for crime. I'd had to resort to artificial stimulants to keep my mind under control, and had ended up making an almost lethal mistake. I'd misjudged the time between doses, taking too much too soon. To my regret, it had been Lestrade who'd found me that day- although if he hadn't recognized the warning signs, I wouldn't be here. The only way I'd avoided being sentenced to rehab was the fact that Lestrade knew it wasn't truly the drug I was addicted to- it was the mental stimulation. As long as I had work, I didn't need the drug. Also, I don't think he wanted me disgraced in front of the force, since he needed them to work with me.

But losing John… would be far worse than that. He was my brother far more than Mycroft was: not in blood, but in bond. How could I make him understand that? I'd never been the type of man to show love, even brotherly love. But John had seen through the mask I'd created, and I reasoned I may as well not bother with it anymore, at least in front of him.

"When we first met and I gave you a taste of how my mind works, you weren't irritated and you didn't think I was a freak," I began quietly. "You were willing to kill a man for my sake, and that night at the pool you'd have given your life taking Moriarty down if it meant he couldn't harm me. You stood by me when almost everyone else believed I was a fraud. I meant it when I said I'd be lost without my blogger. If I lost you now… well, how can I even begin to explain what that would do to me?"

One look at his expression was a reminder that I didn't have to. He knew from experience the pain of losing his best friend- pain I had caused him. The fact that I'd had no choice didn't make it easier.

"You know, the first time I ever met Mycroft, I should have guessed that he was your brother," he said after a moment. "He made a deduction about me just from looking at my hand. I probably don't have to tell you that it used to shake, but it wasn't PTSD."

"Because it shook when you weren't under stress, not when you were. Of course I recognized that. That's why I knew you'd come with me the first time I asked you."

"So it must have occurred to you that I actually enjoy cases, almost as much as you do. Not the part with innocent people dying, obviously, but I need the excitement just as much as you need the mental challenge. I know you don't want my life in danger, but I can't promise nothing bad will ever happen to me, even if I never go with you to solve another crime. I could get hit by a bus just crossing the road someday. That's just the way life is."

"There's more of a chance of you being hurt or killed if you're doing something that involves more risks," I argued.

"I figure my chances are about the same as yours. And the kind of life we've had since we met… I wouldn't miss it for the world. Neither would you. So let's drop the subject and find a case before you decide to bring home another severed head to experiment on." I couldn't help but laugh.

"Actually, Lestrade texted me this morning about a burglar who's been breaking into houses for no other apparent reason than to destroy statues of Napoleon..."

I could never survive if it John were killed, but for both of us to stop truly living would never work. I'd have to control my fears for him, and put my trust in his skills as well as mine. He was right. We'd discussed the subject to its only possible conclusion. Now, there was a fresh puzzle to work out, and John was at my side to solve it with me. The game was on.

**AN: I'm not Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss, and therefore can't own Sherlock and John. The case that starts Sherlock worrying about John is based on the original ACD story, "The Three Garridebs," and the case they're about to start at the end is based on "The Six Napoleons." The reference to bee keeping, for those of you who don't know, was Sherlock's pastime after he eventually retired in the original stories. I threw in Lestrade having saved Sherlock's life when he overdosed partly to show how badly Sherlock needs the work, and also partly because I thought that would have given Lestrade an excuse for a drugs bust in A Study in Pink.**


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